


Hell's Personal Bitch

by awabubbles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bestiality, Bottom Dean Winchester, Come Inflation, Hell, Hellhounds, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mind Break, Other, Porn, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tongue Fucking, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 08:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17422598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awabubbles/pseuds/awabubbles
Summary: Dean never told Sam about the hellhound.





	Hell's Personal Bitch

Dean never told Sam about the hellhound. His time with Alastair in the bowels of hell were gruesome enough: stretched across the rack, cut open, dissected, ripped apart piece-by-piece. His baby brother didn’t need to know about the hound that was loosed on him night after night.

It came after Alistair’s offer: start carving souls up himself, or face the knife again. Dean—cut open, bloody, in agonizing pain but unable to die—said no. For thirty years he said no, and as punishment, each time, Alastair would set the hound on him. Pieced together, in the same body and clothes he’d had when he was first dragged to hell, Dean is forced to relive that night all over again. But worse.

Dean would suddenly find himself In an empty, dark place with no entrances and exits. He’d been pieced back together by Alastair, in the same body and clothes he’d had when Dean was first dragged to hell—forced to relive that night all over again. First was the stink of sulfur, then it’s howl; threatening, hungry. Panic would burst in his veins. He had no pride now, only fear, running blindly in the dark while his heart beat erratically in his ears _thud-amp thud-amp thud-amp_. But no matter how fast or hard he fled the hound would always find him. It tore his flesh with razor teeth, pushed him to the ground and dragged it’s nails down his back.

Then it would mount him.

Dean didn’t even know he was being fucked, at first. Pinned to the ground, there was suddenly a red-hot poker searing his guts. Just another form of torture, though. Alastair had done something similar, before hadn’t he? But then the hound—above Dean, pinning him down—began to pant. Its hips thrust forward and back, the searing pain inside of him moving along with it. When Dean turned his head, he saw the hounds cock: angry, engorged, and buried nearly to the knot inside of him. That’s when Dean knew he was being raped.

He fought back—kicked, screamed, bit! But it was useless. Dean was helpless as it held him down, tore open his asshole, and impaled Dean on it’s cock. He could feel every inch of it, throbbing. When it pulled out, it left a hole that it had carved into his guts. When it thrust back in, it was like a punch. The hellhound held him there until it was done, howling, again, when it came. It flooded Dean’s bloody intestines with its come. His belly swelled with it, growing fatter, and fatter. But still, it kept pumping his stomach full until it finally crawled up his throat and spilled out his mouth. The hellhound came in his ass, and Dean vomited it out the other end.

It was like this every night he refused Alastair. The hound would come, and Dean would get fucked. He dreaded it. The dark. The howling. The hunt. On top of him, inside of him, pushing something out of Dean that he didn’t want. Because Dean could still feel pleasure, even in hell. Alastair must have known that, the fuck. After Dean had been tortured, his body was hungry for something other than pain. So when the hellhound came, giving him something instead of taking it away, it started to feel good. Dean found himself shuddering at the pleasure of being ripped open by cock, forced to the ground and fucked senseless. It was wrong, Dean knew that, but he couldn’t stop the hound from raping him anymore then he could stop his own untouched cock from getting hard.

The first time Dean moaned, it scared the shit out of him.

Five years in hell of being mounted like a bitch had changed Dean’s body. His asshole was permanently agape. It shivered with anticipation when he heard the devilish howl. He ran. It found him. On the ground, with his ass in the air Dean felt it’s saliva dripping down his ass. With it’s black, curled tongue, it lapped at his hole, encasing his balls and cock in its rancid spit. Dean shuddered with humiliation and something else as the hellhound’s tongue slithered up his ass, curling like a snake in his gut. There was no pain, only a warmth that started to spread. It started from his sloppy wet hole down to the base of his balls. Dean shuddered. He tried to resist the pleasure, but it kept building and building and building as the hound’s tongue fucked his red gaping hole. Suddenly the warmth inside of him blossomed, became pure, unadulterated pleasure coursing through his veins.

That’s when Dean moaned. A tiny wisp of a sigh, but still, he’d moaned.

The hellhound mounts him again after that, shoved it’s cock inside and fucked him senseless. Dean bit his tongue until bled, but the floodgates had opened.

After that, it only got worse. Dean’s body continued to betray him. Now that it was used to being fucked it would anticipate the flushed tip of the hellhound’s cock ripping open him open and stuffing itself inside. After a few thrusts, the hound’s cock didn’t even hurt. Waves of pleasure started to build. His mind went to go blank. His own cock flushed and got hard, wagging between his spread legs as he got fucked like his own tail.

Dean had become a full-on bitch. A hole in his belly, like a womb, empty and desperate to get filled. When he felt the hellhound’s knot pressed against his asshole like a threat, Dean pushed his hips back wantonly.

“C’mon, give it to me. Give me you’re knot, you fuck,” he growled.

The hound snarled back and with a final push shoved its knot inside. Dean howled with pleasure just as the hound finished. It impregnated Dean with come, bloating his belly so full it oozed out his ass, forced past the hellhound’s cock plugging him up. It was sudden, and forceful, _and good_. Dean’s eyes rolled back in his head even as he felt himself about to vomit. He came, hard, stuffed full of the animal’s cock. When it pulled out of him, Dean collapsed in a pool of bodily fluids, his own and the hellhound’s regurgitated come.

After the first moan, Dean came every time. Sometimes twice. He stopped fighting. He stopped running. His life on earth was a fading memory. All Dean could think about was cock.

Alistair took notice when he had Dean tied to the rack.

“You’re looking a little starry-eyed as of late, my love. Could it be you’re thinking of someone else; our canine friend, perhaps?” Alastair laughed through his nose, a shrill, high-pitched sound that always made Dean’s skin crawl. “You’re lucky I’m not the jealous type. After all time we’ve spent together I started to believe we had an _intimate_ connection.”

Alistair cut out his heart, holding it aloft for Dean to see. If Dean were still human he’d be dead. In hell, there was no such relief.

“I can schedule more alone time with your paramour,” his torturer suggested with a sneer. “I can even leave you alone for the rest of eternity, if you like. It’ll stay mounted on top of you. Letting you come over, and over again. Daddy’s little boy, hmm? Turned into hell’s personal bitch!”

“Fuck you!” Dean spat, blood pouring from his mouth.

“Tut, tut, tut,” Alistair chided, wagging a finger in Dean’s face. “You’re the one getting fucked. But you should be careful, Dean. Pleasure can cut just as bad as my knife.”

Alastair laughed, malicious. When he was done carving Dean up he offered up his deal once again. And once again, Dean said no.

The hellhound howled. Dean stood where he was until it found him, shred his clothes, and shoved itself inside. Dean doesn’t hold back. He comes on the hellhound’s knotted cock. But this time was different. This time after the hound came, it didn’t stop. It pumped him full of come, and then just kept fucking.

“God-fuck!” Dean growled—didn’t matter if he cursed, there was no one coming to save him, he thought. His cock was spent but the pleasure kept coming. He couldn’t stop it. His fucked-open asshole was making obscene sounds from the hellhound’s come gushing out of him with every thrust. He got hard hard again. He came. But still, the hellhound kept going, thrusting it’s massive cock deep into his gut over and over again.

It used him six more times before it was called back into the dark. Alastair appeared afterwards, summoned chains to shackle Dean from every limb.

“Did you miss me?” he asked.

Dean did. He was scared of what he was becoming.

Alistair saw his terror, and smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he mused. “Perhaps I should summon a second? Or third? By now I’m sure you have plenty of room to _accommodate_.”

“No!” Dean gasps. He couldn’t take much more of this. Alistair knew it.

“The offer is the same as it’s always been,” the demon says. “Pick up the knife, and help me carve up lost souls.”

Alastair offers the handle of his favorite scalpel. Dean stares at it. For the first time, he hesitates.

That was the beginning of the end. After thirty years in hell, Dean broke. He picked up Alastair’s instruments of torture and turned them on someone besides himself, ripping and cutting and tearing until divine intervention pushes his battered soul back into its coffin of flesh. He held off on telling his brother about what he’d done for as long as he could. But he broke a second time in front of his brother, shared the horrors that hell had served him upon a tarnished platter.

He never told Sam about the hellhound, though. Dean would take that shame with him to his second grave.


End file.
